


I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream on the High Seas

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Cruise Ships, Guidance Counselors, Love Confessions, M/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7598563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“It’s a couples’ counseling cruise.”</i> Eggsy can’t believe that there’s 1) posh wankers who can afford therapy and a cruise and 2) voluntarily sign up for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream on the High Seas

**Author's Note:**

> The anon who prompted me asked for "blue moon + mission gone wrong but oh so right." 
> 
> (since the whole "tumblr has been bought by verizon/yahoo" thing is going down, you may see more of my fics/ficlets from tumblr being posted here!)

“I can’t believe you’re making us do this,” Eggsy hisses under his breath.

“You two are the perfect team to play this part,” Merlin replies, voice perfectly level, though Eggsy can imagine the subtle little smirk turning up the corners of his mouth.

“It’s a _couples’ counseling cruise._ ” Eggsy can’t believe that there’s 1) posh wankers who can afford therapy and a cruise and 2) voluntarily sign up for it. He supposes the promises of an open bar, two hours scheduled with a couples’ massage, and personal Jacuzzi jets in the baths make spilling out relationship problems to a counselor and equally-suffering couples at least a little bearable.

It’s also an opportunity for one of the couples—a certain Mr. and Mrs. Donahue—to run an undercover drug smuggling operation while the ship unloads the cargo at certain destinations. They’d been under the radar for a long time, and their “business” had actually skyrocketed during V-Day. No longer cronies, as they’d murdered their higher-ups, Mr. and Mrs. Donahue sailed the high seas, wined and dined customers, operated an underground drug ring, and offered relationship counselling at exorbitant prices.

 _There are worse missions,_ Eggsy reminds himself as soon as he steps into the boat. While Roxy’s squatting in a dirty motel in Russia, Eggsy gets to sip cocktails, lounge lazily on a sunlit deck, and eat shrimp toast in the hot tub.

But he also has to be here with Harry.

Harry Hart: the man who’d died and came back to life and somehow managed to dodge every non-work-related question Eggsy had, despite sharing a house with him. It seemed that every time Eggsy’s mind thought back to their argument in the downstairs loo, the massacre and supposed death in Kentucky, or the dreamlike moments of their shared twenty-four hours, Harry sensed it and made a break for the closest door. Eggsy had become well-practiced in his twenty-three years about avoiding emotional conversations, but Harry took the cake.

 _It’s probably_ , Eggsy now thinks viciously, throwing his suitcase onto the king-sized bed, _b_ _ecause he’s so much older than you. More practice._

“You’re sleeping on the bed?”

“Uh, yeah.” Eggsy looks around, seeing Harry clutch his own suitcase in both hands. A vicious, tiny part gleefully notices how unsettled the other man looks. “There’s only one bed, and I’m not sleeping in the tub or on the floor.”

Harry’s eyes skim the room. There’s a desk with pamphlets scattered all over the surface, along with two leather chairs. “Doubtless, it raise questions if we call for a cot.”

Eggsy crosses his arms. “We’re supposed to be an arguing couple, yeah? It’ll make sense.” When Harry flinches, so subtly that Eggsy almost doesn’t see, Eggsy mentally counts to ten in his head. He can be vicious, yes, but not cruel. Not to Harry, who got a miracle, perhaps his last one.

“I’ll sleep on the cot,” Eggsy says instead, with what he hopes looks like an apologetic smile. “You can have the bed.”

* * *

 The name _Blue Moon_ had been coined, according to the brochure, because _true communication in most unsteady relationships happen once in a blue moon, and here, we try to change that habit._

Now, Eggsy’s wishing someone would, ironically, say _something_.

“Anyone?” Mrs. Donahue asks, but everyone shifts in their loveseats, something the Donahues claimed would _sprout intimacy by the physicality_.  Eggsy thinks it has the opposite effect; all the couples are sitting as far away as possible on opposite ends. Harry’s knee is pressed up against Eggsy’s, his back stiffer than the wooden legs of the furniture and hands perched on his lap, nails digging into the skin. Eggsy’s torn between getting closer or moving away, fingers fidgeting and picking at his nails. He can smell Harry’s cologne. It reminds him of sinking into a warm bath, bubbles up to his chin, oil slipping around his skin.

“All right,” Mr. Donahue sighs, “in this bag, right on my lap, I have slips of paper with your names. Don’t make me use it.” Someone begins to raise his hand, but immediately drops it when he catches the livid glare his wife is giving him.

The Donahues sigh unhappily in unison, then Mr. Donahue tugs at the drawstring of his red velvet bag and rifles through it. Holding up a slip of paper, he reads: “Henry and Gareth Collins. All right, who are you?”

Eggsy reluctantly raises his hand, feeling as if he was in secondary all over again, all while Harry lets his head drop to the back of the loveseat with an expression akin to resignation.

“Lovely!” Ms. Donahue smiles, and actually looks sincere. “Wonderful, wonderful. So, Henry and Gareth…how did you two meet?”

Harry doesn’t reply, and before the silence stretches enough to become awkward again, Eggsy says, “Well, we met a long time ago, but I didn’t remember. But, uh, a while after that, we met again. And…” He doesn’t know why he’s telling the truth, or a somewhat vague version of it, instead of making it all up, but keeps going: “We just started talking. I don’t think I really liked him at first, but…uh, after he defended me from some…verbal attacks, I just…” Cheeks burning, refusing to look at the man next to him, Eggsy stutters, increasingly thinking that this is a terrible, terrible idea, “I think I was a little gone for him. Infatuated, maybe.”

Mr. Donahue leans forward. “And when did you start loving him?”

“I…” Eggsy pauses. “I don’t know. I mean…he just…snuck up on me, I guess.”

There were a few possible scenarios where Eggsy could have fallen in love with Harry, but with each event weighed, he couldn’t decide the exact moment when he woke up and said to himself, _this is the man who I can’t live without._

Perhaps it was after Kentucky, when Eggsy felt that terrible, crushing loss like he’d never felt before, screaming at the live footage of Harry dropping to the pavement, the clear blue sky, the blood spattered across his vision. It had looked pretty, almost, red on blue, but the realization of _Harry’s dead, Harry’s gone, Valentine killed him_ made him slam the laptop out and heave gasping, dying breaths in the chair.

Perhaps it was after the bunker, when Eggsy had sobbed in Princess Tilde’s arms, as she patted him on the back and murmured nonsensical comforts in English and Swedish. They were both naked, but it didn’t feel sensual or sexual at all. The warmth of Tilde’s skin and four walls surrounding him calmed him down somewhat, but when Merlin gently told him to come back to the plane, he’d broken down again, not wanting to go home, home to where the unknown future awaited him. Unknown, of course, except for the fact that Harry was dead, and that truth he couldn’t bear to face.

Perhaps it was during the long and lonely months of wandering around Harry’s house like a ghost, wearing his clothes and speaking in his accent and bearing his title. Perhaps it was when Harry returned, with a twisted scar above his left eye and hobbling a little on a cane, and Merlin almost threw his clipboard at the dead man entering the shop. Perhaps it was when Harry moved in and cooked him breakfast, just like during their twenty-four hours before everything went to shit, and when the steam had tickled Eggsy’s face like a kiss.

Mr. Donahue nods. “When did your problems begin?”

“He died.” Eggsy says. “I mean, I thought he did. He was on a business trip in America on V-Day, and…ever since he came back, we haven’t talked, and I…I don’t know what I did. We argued before he left, but…I thought I…”  _I thought I loved him._

Everyone around him makes soft noises of empathy. Some rub scars on their arms or face, some give him and Harry pity-eyed looks, and some bow their heads.

The Donahues nod solemnly, though they don’t seem to look too sorry.

And why would they? Eggsy realizes he’s been spilling out his guts to a pair of criminals. And Harry, who’s been sitting here like a lump.

Somehow, that makes it even more pathetic.

“Look, mates, this has been…great, honestly, but I have to go.” Eggsy stands up and makes for the door, but Mr. Donahue raises his hand and clicks some remote in his hand as soon as Eggsy tries the lever. “Let me out,” he demands, and horrified, Eggsy realizes his voice is breaking. “Let me _out_ ,” he repeats.

“You can’t run away, you know,” Ms. Donahue says. Her eyes are warm and kind, and Eggsy, if he didn’t already know she was a drug trafficker, would have sat right back down. “Let us help you.” She turns to Harry. “Your partner has shared his emotions. Bared his soul to you. Shouldn’t you do the same?”

When Harry speaks, his voice is so quiet that everyone in the room has to crane their necks in his direction to hear. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you.”

Eggsy wrinkles his nose, blurting out: “ _Gross_ , guv!”

While Ms. Donahue shoots him a stern look, Harry backpedals: “No! Not the first time, _no_. Absolutely not.” Eggsy’s almost pleased to see the tips of his ears going red. “I meant…when I saw you outside the police station.” Several swivel in their seats to gape in the direction of Eggsy, but he ignores them in favor of listening to Harry. “You were looking around, blinking in the sunlight, and I just _knew_ something would change in me. I couldn’t explain it back then, no, but the more we spoke, I became…I became more and more fascinated by you. And at the shop, later, when we started talking again, I _knew_. I think I knew then, but didn’t realize until…you came to my house for the first time.”

“Back then?” Eggsy asks, still standing by the door. His heart is skipping like he’d had too much coffee. “That long ago?”

“Yes,” Harry says.

“But why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Harry scoffs. “Look at me, and look at you. We can’t…I never…I’m not good enough for you, all right, I—”

Eggsy doesn’t know when he started kissing Harry, or when the scattered applause began, but as they shared their first kiss in front of couples who still needed to resolve their own issues and a criminal duo who they’ll take care of as soon as the boat lands, Eggsy realizes that he doesn’t care how it happened.

He only cares about what is.


End file.
